


That Our Sons May Have Liberty

by xcourtney_chaoticx



Category: Emergency!
Genre: American Civil War, American History, Depictions Of War Violence, Ensemble Cast, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, history au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9654737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcourtney_chaoticx/pseuds/xcourtney_chaoticx
Summary: Bob Bellingham has been a part of this war between the states for far too long, has seen far too much death and destruction, but more than that, his young comrade has seen too much death. Now, as they head for a small Pennsylvania town, he wonders just how much longer they will have to deal with these horrors.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just-... I had to write a Battle of Gettysburg AU ? So yeah. There are no graphic depictions of blood or death or injuries, but they are mentioned, and there is a historically accurate death depicted, though not in great detail.
> 
> Also features The Bromance That Shall Not Be Named aka Winfield Scott Hancock and Lewis Armistead. If you like feeling things and being emotional, I suggest you look into their friendship.

Bob leaned over, elbowed the young man in the wagon beside him, and asked, “Hey, kid, what’s the name of this town we’re goin’ to again?”

“I told you earlier, Bellingham.”

“I know, but I don’t quite remember. C’mon, Brice, just tell me again.”

He remembered just fine, but their ride had been too quiet for his liking.

“It’s called Gettysburg.”

“Mighta heard of it before.”

“You always say that about every town.”

“Only ‘cause it’s true.”

He thought Brice may have rolled his eyes, but he’s noted the boy tended to above such overt shows of emotion. A lovely boy, if a bit odd, Craig Brice at least enjoyed being part of the ambulance corps. They’d both been able to bond a bit over not wanting any part of shooting and killing, so this relatively new ambulance corps was well suited to their needs and skills.

“So, the Rebels are in Gettysburg.”

“Correct. I believe I heard I Corps, III Corps, and XI Corps are there already, as well, under the command of Major General Reynolds. Major General Hancock is attempting to get us there quickly.”

“Yup, sure feels like it. Feels like this’ll be a big one.”

“They’re all big ones.”

 _That’s true enough._ The 69 th Pennsylvania had seen many big battles, had its fair share of grizzled veterans who’d seen more than enough carnage. Bob was older, well on his way to forty, but Brice was not yet twenty-five. It almost seemed unfair that he and so many other boys should have to endure this fight and all the horrors of war. _Doesn’t seem right to me._ There was a quote he wished he could remember, something about old men fighting and young men learning. Brice was much better at remembering such things.

Brice had been fairly well educated, could remember all sorts of things Bob had never heard of. Bob had gotten just enough schooling to get by. His family were all Philadelphia dock workers after all, so there wasn’t much he needed school for. Looking over at his companion, he took a moment to ponder the bespectacled boy. He was from a family of shopkeepers, not really wealthy but not poor, either. It shows in his slight build compared to Bob’s brawny one. They make for an interesting pair, especially with their third man added in.

While Brice drove the ambulance, their other stretcher-bearer sat on the back, making small talk with the other ambulance. His name was Marco Lopez. A handsome man with a black moustache, he hailed from Mexico originally but had made his home in Philadelphia for nearly ten years. The two stretcher-bearers on the other ambulance were more of a nod to the original formation of the 69th Penna, as they had spent time in California. Roy DeSoto went when he was young and had returned to Philadelphia as a man with a family of his own. Most interestingly, he returned with a friend. John Gage was half-Indian and had become close with DeSoto in California. Apparently Gage had no family, so DeSoto brought him into his. They had both joined the original 2nd California in 1861.

Their driver was a young man, curly-haired with a thick moustache, named Chet Kelly. Bob had actually known him prior to the war, knew his family from the same Delaware River docks. The dark-haired boy was a bit of a troublemaker, but he was a good kid overall. Kelly could find a way to get along with anyone, so much so that Bob joked the war could be ended by sending him to talk with Jeff Davis. Of course, Gage would retort that such a thing would be torture and would force a Reb surrender.

They shared a supply wagon with the 71st Penna that was headed by two men younger than Bob but older than the others, Hank Stanley and Mike Stoker. Stoker tended to be quiet and reserved, and Bob had initially thought him rude until he realized that was just his personality. Stanley was a little more open with everyone, had a bit of a friendlier demeanor though he was more of a newcomer. He was a sergeant, but everyone called him Cap for reasons unknown to Bob. It was just one of those things. Overall, their little group was friendly and pleasant and got along well.

Looking up, Bob watched the sun sink behind the trees as night fell.

“How much longer, y’think?”

“Perhaps we’ll arrive around midnight, Bellingham.”

“That late? Damn…”

Lopez was still chatting happily in the back. _Still can’t think of that damned quote._ With a sigh, he settled back in the seat, telling Brice, “Wake me if ya need anything…”

xXxXx

July 2 kept them busy. Night was well underway before the sounds of battle finally stopped, but that only meant their job was just beginning. _Well, ongoing… we’ve been workin’ all day._ The 69 th Penna had been set up almost in the middle of a long ridge called Cemetery Ridge and were engaged throughout the afternoon. Bob carefully separated himself from the carnage, tried not to get personally involved. Their job was a simple one: comfort the dying, collect the wounded, and take them to the nearest structure designated as a hospital. It was a simple enough series of tasks. Bob and Lopez collected the wounded and put them in the wagon. Brice drove the wagon to the nearest field hospital.

Most of the wounded were laid out in the open with tents or canopies for their only shelter. Others only had the canopy of leaves. Hours passed before the 69th ambulancers got any rest, the eight men coming together for their brief respite.

“Was pretty bad today,” Gage said plainly, biting into a piece of hardtack.

Everyone gave a hum of agreement, all trying to eat what they could while they could. Small talk reigned for the moment, each man speaking of home or previous work or family, anything but the day’s battle. Only two were silent: Brice and Stoker. _That’s just them, though. They’re always like that._ Bob sighed quietly, told his friends some funny story for the tenth time, hoping to keep their minds off everything.

“Gonna be bad tomorrow,” Stoker said out of the blue.

“Yeah?” Cap asked.

“Yup. Gonna be bad.”

Stoker fell silent again, leaned back against the tree, sipped his coffee. This was one of the few times he would speak, to be a portent of bad news or rarely to put someone in their place. Either way, when Stoker spoke, men should listen.

“Worse than today?” Kelly asked, eyes wide.

“Probably, yeah.”

Kelly gave a low whistle, and DeSoto said, “Worse? Not sure how it could get worse…”

After a quick shrug, Stoker set his cup down and went to sleep. _Typical Stoker._ Bob elbowed Brice, encouraging him to do the same, but Brice didn’t move. His eyes were wide behind his spectacles, his fingers furiously crumbling a piece of hardtack. Bob took it out of his hands, whispered, “C’mon, kid, go to sleep for a bit,” and gripped one of his hands tightly with his own. The blue eyes turned onto him, delicate fingers curling around Bob’s. These were the moments that reminded him Brice was still young, much younger than he. Certainly, boys much younger than Brice had fought and died throughout the course of this war, but Bob wasn’t as close with those boys as he was with Brice. _They aren’t mine to protect, not like this one._

“You need some rest, Brice,” he told him softly, “Just lay right here by me. We’ll be alright.”

A moment passed before Brice pressed close to his side despite the hot night, still silent, and Bob instinctively wrapped an arm around him. Both settled in for a short respite, wondering exactly what new horrors the next day would bring.

xXxXx

 _And that’s it. Just like that… done._ Stoker had been right, as he always was. July 3 was horrible. Union and Rebel cannon battled each other all morning, starting before the sun was up and intensifying into the early afternoon. The cannonade was deafening. It was not long before the ambulance men had work. They spent the whole day running back and forth with wounded, even the drivers. Bob pushed down the horror at seeing grievous wound after grievous wound: mutilated faces, amputated limbs, internal organs hanging out through various holes. It was easier to push it down. He could deal with it later.

About an hour after the cannonade intensified, around two o’clock, the Rebs charged. Bob could see Virginia regiments, some from North Carolina, Mississippi, Georgia, and elsewhere. _That’s a lotta men… probably over ten thousand…_ For a moment, Bob paused and just watched them advance, a strange sensation roiling in his chest. Brice and Lopez came to stand beside him, then the others.

“Incredible,” Gage whispered.

“They’re gonna die,” Bob said quietly, “Most of those boys are gonna die when they hit that wall.”

Then they got back to work. Some of the Rebs ran into the Philadelphia Brigade, the 69th Penna fighting ferociously against a horde of Virginians, their commander waving his hat atop his sword.

“Help! Help! General Hancock is shot!”

Bob took off toward the sound of the voice, fear pumping through his body. General Hancock was one of the best they had. The Union could not afford to lose him, not now. When Bob arrived, the general was sat on the ground, blood leaking from his thigh.

“Everyone get away!” he was shouting, “I must stay! I must stay on the field!”

“Sir, with all due respect,” Bob spoke up, “the general might be more comfortable off the line-“

“No, I’ll stay. I have to stay and keep abreast of what’s happening on the field,” General Hancock said, “Please, corporal, go tend to other men.”

“As the general wishes, sir.”

He simply helped bandage the leg and then returned to the fray.

“Hey, I was worried about you,” Lopez said.

“Oh, I’m fine, pal. Just helped bandage a general, is all.”

“A general?”

“Yup. C’mon, over here…”

They carried and treated wounded for almost two hours while the battle raged, their Philadelphia Brigade putting up a magnificent fight against the massed Virginians, beating them back from the Angle. Bob and his comrades continued to perform their simple work: pick up the wounded, take them to the hospital, repeat. Some of those who were less wounded went to a sort of staging area before being moved. Those who were certain to die were comforted as they left their earthly bonds.

“We need stretcher-bearers here! Hurry!”

Bob grabbed Brice and pulled him along, Lopez busy tending to other soldiers. They found several officers crowded around a Rebel officer, his sleeve and pantleg bloody. Bob recognized him as the officer with his hat atop his sword. The Reb pleaded, “Please… please, I should like to see General Hancock. Where is he?”

The officers shared a look.

“Sir,” Bob spoke up, “the last I saw, General Hancock had been shot in-“

The words seemed to break the poor man’s spirit, and at once, Bob regretted speaking. Tears spilled from his eyes, his expression pure anguish. Bob tried to soothe him, explained, “Sir, the general was shot in the thigh, but he was alive and well when I left him,” but to no avail. The Reb officer was clearly heartbroken, perhaps for their loss, perhaps his friend’s wound, perhaps both. It sounded to Bob as if this man and Hancock had been very good friends.

“Not both of us on the same day!” the officer cried, and a moment passed before he collected himself enough to tell them, “Tell General Hancock, from me, that I have done him and you all a great injustice which I shall regret the longest day I live.”

Bob’s heart ached for him, ached for this noble-looking man’s pain. His expression was one of anguish such as Bob had never seen. With a quick tug to Brice’s sleeve, Bob stepped up and prepared to transport the Rebel officer to the ambulance. The captain who’d called them over said, “Take him right to a hospital. I believe… I believe the Spangler farmhouse is closest. Quickly, corporals…”

They retrieved Lopez on the way and started their journey to the Spangler farm. The poor man looked utterly miserable, and Bob couldn’t be sure if it was from physical pain or emotional anguish. Brice reached out and gently smoothed his hand over the man’s forehead in a gesture that was uncharacteristically soothing.

“Sir,” the boy asked, “would you tell us your name?”

“Arm-Armistead… Lewis Armistead…”

_I’ve heard of him… He’s a general, and a good one._

“General Armistead, when we get to the hospital,” Bob told him, “I’ll personally inquire after General Hancock for you. I’m sure he’s just fine. He was when I left him, just a ‘lil wound in the thigh, sir.”

“Do you think he’ll be there?”

“There or any of our other hospitals. Someone’ll know, sir.”

“I hope so, corporal… I hope so…”

Armistead spoke softly, as if very tired… as if he were dying. _His wounds aren’t serious, though._ Bob wasn’t a doctor, but he had seen enough to know what was serious and what wasn’t, and Armistead’s did not look serious.

“You know General Hancock well, sir?”

For once, Brice wore a soft expression, sympathetic and almost sad.

“Win… Win is my closest friend… We served together in California… and we were together when this war began,” Armistead explained in his quiet drawl, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, “A sad day… very sad day, boys… Y’know… I asked tha-that God should- should strike me dead if I came up against him… if I raised my hand against him… and it seems I have got my wish…”

“General, I should think you’ll be alright. Your wounds are not-“

“No, corporal… I believe I shall get my wish…”

No one spoke after that. Bob and Brice simply tried to make the general as comfortable as possible during the trip to the hospital, tried to let him know he wasn’t alone, that he would be fine, but he couldn’t be consoled. _We’ve done our best. All we can do, I reckon._ All the hospitals tended to be somewhere about a mile from the fighting. Anything with a roof and four walls was repurposed to accommodate the wounded, including farmhouses, schools, churches, anything, and the people were often were recruited to help care for them. Their little wagon had made many trips over the last few days, and the next day would likely be spent the same way, seeking and caring for the wounded.

“Tomorrow’s July 4th,” Bob whispered.

Brice looked up at him but said nothing. It wasn’t really something Bob had intended to say aloud, just an observation he’d suddenly made. _Haven’t even been a country ninety years and this is happening. Hard to believe sometimes._

“We’re at Spangler’s,” Lopez said.

He came around to help Bob and Brice get Armistead out of the wagon and into the makeshift hospital, a surgeon directing them where to put him. They got him as settled as possible, and when their task was done, they turned to leave.

“Boys… Boys, wait…”

The weak drawl stopped them, forced them to turn and return to his side. Armistead wet his lips and asked, “Boys… would you tell me your names?”

They did.

“Lopez… Brice… Bellingham… Thank for your kindness toward me in my final days. Lovey boys… it’s a shame we had to meet in such a way.”

Rough fingers gripped Bob’s, squeezing faintly. Something shifted uncomfortably in his chest, emotions seeping through his body, his own fingers squeezing back. He was the first one out of the room. He took up the driver’s seat, working to beat back these odd emotions. They wouldn’t do him any good in the remainder of their work. There were too many wounded who needed their care.

“Alright, fellas, back to work,” Bob said, “Plenty of boys who need our help.”

They worked well into the night, often running into Gage and DeSoto and Kelly and Stoker and Stanley along the way. All of them wore the same carefully constructed expressions of comfort. They picked their way among the dead bodies in blue and grey, occasionally comforted the dying, directing those not seriously wounded where to go. Sometimes they left men outside under canopies while other pitched tents for makeshift hospitals. Sometimes those men died where they lay. Bob tried not to let it get to him.

On July 4, it rained. Both armies, in an uneasy truce, collected the their wounded and the wounded on their side of the battlefield. Bob could see grey clad shapes moving in the distance, doing the same work as he, picking through death for a chance to save life. It’s miserable, wet work, but it’s necessary. Bob went about it almost mechanically. There are thousands of men strewn over the ground, shot or stabbed or blown apart by cannon fire. Some of them looked like children to Bob. Some of them likely were children. He fought back tears more than once, consoled survivors and fellow ambulance men throughout the day. They worked well into the night again, the eight friends coming together to sleep in a comforting pile.

The army prepared to leave the next day, chasing the Rebel retreat, and Bob and Brice and Lopez’s little ambulance wagon made one more stop at the Spangler house.

“Doc! Hey, doc,” Bob approached the grey-haired surgeon, “I just wanted to ask after General Armistead. I know you said his wounds weren’t serious, and I was hopin’ to say good-bye.”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed that chance, corporal. The general died this morning.”

“Died? But-… But I thought-… You said the wounds weren’t that bad.”

“They weren’t. Honestly, corporal, the general wasn’t well. It was very hot the last few days, so I think prostration played a major part. That and… and I believe the poor man was heartbroken. He asked after General Hancock a great many times, but Hancock was sent to Philadelphia the same day he arrived. I assured him Hancock would live, but he was inconsolable. I heard they were good friends once.”

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s how he told it to us, doc. Umm, thank you for telling me.”

Back at the ambulance, Bob climbed into the back beside Brice, who asked, “Bellingham, what’s wrong?”

“The general… Armistead… he died this morning.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Just-… I feel so bad for him. Ya hear stories about friends fightin’ each other and brothers fightin’ each other but-… I never expected to experience it. That poor man only wanted to see his-his friend again, just wanted a-a-a familiar face, wanted-“

A sob burst forth before he could stop it, and he cried for the first time since Antietam. Brice quickly pulled him into an embrace, holding him as Bob had held him many times before when this war became too much. The realities had finally hit home for Bob in a way they never had before. He never expected he would cry for a Reb, let alone a Reb general, yet he was brokenhearted for this man. General Armistead had died alone, or surrounded by strangers, worrying for his friend, fearing he’d done him irreparable harm… and it led to his death. Then there was General Hancock, who was so close to his friend in life, and then was miles away when that friend died, was going to be told by some unfeeling officer that a Reb general named Armistead died in a farmhouse at Gettysburg.

So Bob cried for them and for everyone else he hadn’t cried for this whole war, and Brice comforted him as he did. He just wanted this war to end so more boys like Brice wouldn’t have to deal with this pain and horror anymore and could back to their lives, back to their studies and families. _I remember that quote._ Bob tightened his arms around Brice, seeking comfort from the embrace.

_The science of government it is my duty to study, more than all other sciences; the arts of legislation and administration and negotiation ought to take the place of, indeed exclude, in a manner, all other arts. I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain._

**John Adams, Letter to Abigail Adams (12 May 1780)**

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Philadelphia Brigade actually began as a California Brigade recruited in the Philadelphia area because Union sympathizers in California wanted a presence in the war. After only a month, following the death of the original brigade commander, the regiments were reformed as Pennsylvania regiments. I thought it would be a nice nod to the show being based in Los Angeles while remaining historically accurate. Please don't hesitate to politely let me know if anything is wildly inaccurate. I have done my best to research everything.


End file.
